Chapter 37
Sadie
The house feels too quiet. Shepard keeps pacing between the window and the kitchen, running his hand through his hair like he’s trying to wear a hole in his scalp.
The smell of smoke drifts even here, faint but insistent, enough to remind me the town is burning while I stand in a borrowed sweater.
He finally stops, pulling two mugs from the cabinet. “Tea,” he mutters, as if the word itself will settle his nerves. He pours hot water over the bags, hands one to me.
“Thanks,” I say, curling both palms around the mug. The warmth helps, but not nearly enough. “Has anything like this ever happened before? Fires like this?”
His mouth presses flat. “No. Not in Driftwood. We get brush fires outside town, sure, but this—” He shakes his head. “This is something else.”
I sip the tea, but it tastes like paper, no comfort at all. My throat is tight. “If we hadn’t been on the water, Gabe could have stopped this.”
“Don’t do that,” he says firmly, eyes cutting to mine. “You don’t get to carry blame for this. Not when we don’t know what the hell’s happening.”
I nod, but the knot in my stomach won’t ease.
He sets his mug down, still restless. “I’m thinking of heading over to grab Gus. Bring him here, keep him with us. That way, when Boone and Gabe get back, everyone’s in one place. Safe.”
The word catches in me. Safe. I haven’t felt that since Memphis, maybe not even before. “Will you be long?”
“Half an hour, tops.” He watches me carefully. “Will you come with me?”
I glance down at my half-drunk tea, then shake my head. “I’ll stay here. Make another pot in case the guys come back hungry or wired. They’re going to need it.”
He hesitates, then leans down and presses a kiss to my hair. It’s soft, lingering longer than he meant to, I can tell.
His scent wraps around me, warm, anchoring. “Lock the door,” he says quietly.
I nod. “Go.”
When the door clicks shut behind him, the silence swallows everything again. I pull my phone out, flick to the news.
The feed is chaos. Helicopter shots of Driftwood lit up like a bonfire, whole blocks reduced to glowing skeletons. Reporters shouting over the roar of fire, the flash of sirens bouncing red and blue across black smoke.
Words scroll across the bottom: “multiple structures damaged,” “families displaced,” “emergency crews stretched thin.”
My stomach twists. The community health center, where Boone sometimes pulls shifts, is nothing but smoke. McCallister’s, where I only just painted a mural on the side wall, is collapsed in on itself.
The anchors keep saying the same thing over and over. No one knows how it started. No one knows how to stop it.
I set the phone down, hands shaking. My tea’s gone cold. I need something stronger, something bitter.
I dig in Shepard’s cupboards until I find coffee grounds. Maybe if I focus on that—measuring, pouring, waiting for the drip—I can drown out the images of Driftwood burning.
The smell fills the kitchen, sharp and familiar, a reminder of long nights painting when coffee was the only thing keeping my hands from giving out. I close my eyes and let it wash over me, just for a second.
A knock startles me so hard I nearly spill the pot.
My heart kicks. Shepard’s back already? That was fast.
I wipe my hands on a dish towel, half laughing at myself for jumping. I walk quickly, rehearsing in my head how I’ll tease him for forgetting his keys.
I pull the door open.
And my stomach plummets into my feet.
It’s not Shepard. It’s Scott.
And behind him—his pack, their broad shoulders filling the porch, their eyes glittering in the dim light.
Scott leans against the frame like he belongs here, like no time has passed. His smile is all teeth. “Hey, sweetheart,” he drawls. “Miss us?”
The world tilts. My hand is still on the doorknob, but it’s useless, my grip slack. My mouth opens but no sound comes out. The coffee burbles behind me, forgotten.
His eyes rake over me, over the sweater that doesn’t belong to me, the faint marks Boone’s mouth left on my neck. His grin sharpens.
I want to slam the door. I want to scream. I want to run.
But I can’t do any of it. Not when his pack looms like a wall, not when the past I ran from is standing on the porch smiling like it never ended.
My heartbeat thrashes so loud it drowns out the fire trucks in the distance. And I know—my hell has found me again.
The air freezes in my lungs.
Scott doesn’t wait for an invitation. He pushes past me into my living room, his scent crawling over everything like rot.
The others follow—Levi with his broad shoulders and cruel smirk, Trevor and Dalton moving in unison, Jeremiah bringing up the rear with a paper cup in hand.
I slam the door shut behind them, more instinct than logic. My back is pressed to it, my fingers trembling against the knob. “Get out.”
Scott chuckles, deep and low, that same ugly sound that used to make my stomach curl. He turns, his eyes dragging over me.
“You thought a restraining order would keep me away, sweetheart? You forgot they actually have to serve me the papers. You haven’t always been that smart, have you? Thank God you make up for it.”
My jaw locks. “I’m not your sweetheart.”
“Not anymore, you mean.” His gaze flicks to my throat, to the marks that haven’t faded, and his smile twists. “We’ve been in town a while now. Watching. You really thought we wouldn’t find you?”
My stomach drops. “You’ve been here—”
“A month,” Jeremiah interrupts, his voice smooth as he wanders into the kitchen like he belongs there. He lifts Shepard’s mug, sniffs it, then takes a long sip. “Weak tea.” He spits it back in, smirking when I flinch.
Levi laughs, cracking his knuckles. “Hell of a show, Sadie. Parading around, painting walls, slutting yourself out to a pack that doesn’t even know how to keep you.”
My blood spikes hot. “You don’t get to say that.”
Trevor’s eyes glint as he circles closer, Dalton shadowing him. “Your next heat’s in what, two weeks? Three? We figured we’d save you the trouble of embarrassing yourself again. We’ll take you home.”
“I’m not going anywhere.” My voice is sharp, cutting through my fear. “I built a life here. This is my home now.”
Scott tilts his head, his expression amused. “Sweetheart, this isn’t a request. You’re our property. You always have been.”
Something inside me breaks. “I’m not your property.”
The laugh that rumbles out of him is crueler than anything I’ve ever heard. He closes the space between us in two strides.
His hand comes up, and for a heartbeat I think he’ll strike me. Instead, he trails his fingers down my back until they rest on the curve of my hip.
I jerk away, but Trevor and Dalton are faster. They grab me, one clamping onto my arms, the other forcing me down. My knees slam against the hardwood, pain sparking white-hot.
I thrash, spitting, “Don’t touch me!”
Scott crouches in front of me, his hand sliding across my thigh, fingers digging just enough to remind me of every bruise he ever left.
“You’ve gained weight,” he muses, his eyes cold. “Looks good on you. Softer. Fuller. Better.”
Bile rises in my throat. “Get your hands off me.”
Dalton presses down harder on my shoulders, Trevor pinning my wrists. I’m trapped, breath ragged, rage shaking me harder than fear.
Jeremiah strolls back in, Shepard’s mug still dangling from his hand. He spits again, lets it dribble on the floor beside me.
“Can’t believe you traded us in for them,” he says lazily. “A Beta and a couple of small-town Alphas? You call that a pack?”
Scott’s hand squeezes my thigh. “You stink of them. Their mouths, their cocks. You smell like a fucking brothel.” His lip curls. “We’ll have to scrub you clean.”
I snap my head up, fury spilling over. “I don’t belong to you. Not anymore. Not ever again.”
Levi chuckles from behind Scott. “That’s rich. She really believes it.”
Scott leans closer, his breath hot against my face. “You think Driftwood makes you free? Let me educate you, sweetheart. Geography doesn’t change biology. You’re ours. You always will be.”
My body shakes, not just from fear but from rage so sharp it feels like fire in my veins. “You’ll have to kill me first.”
Scott’s grin widens. “That could be arranged.” His hand drags higher, toward the hem of Shepard’s sweater, and I lurch back hard, slamming against Trevor’s hold.
Jeremiah sighs, bored. He leans against the counter, eyes gleaming.
“You should’ve stayed quiet, Sadie. Could’ve saved yourself the humiliation. But then again…” He tilts his head, smirk sharp. “It’s a pity. You really were talented.”
The words freeze me. “What?”
Scott doesn’t pause. His fingers trace the faint bruises on my neck, pressing down like he owns every mark. “What do you think happened to your pretty little murals? Your health center? Your hardware store?”
The air caves in.
“You…” My voice cracks, raw, horror cutting through me. “You set the fires.”
Jeremiah raises the mug like a toast. “Driftwood burns, Memphis rises. We thought you’d appreciate that, little phoenix.”
My chest seizes, nausea clawing up my throat. All those families, all those lives torn apart—not random, not accidental, but them. Because of me.
Scott pats my cheek mockingly, then lets his fingers dig into my jaw. “So pack your things, sweetheart. You’re coming home. We’ve wasted enough time already.”